Wagering on the Wallflower
Autor
Eva Shepherd
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Chapter One
For many people, hell was fire, brimstone and red-faced devils poking you with sharp, pointed pitchforks. But not for Lady Hazel Springfeld. For her, hell was being forced to wear an overly fussy pink ballgown and having to spend the evening being dragged around the dance floor by a boorish man, while mocking society ladies tittered behind their fans.
Yes, she was in hell. But it was a hell she was going to have to endure. After all, what choice did a young lady of twenty-three have? This was her fifth Season. Her fifth year of trying to find a suitable husband. Her fifth year of being ignored by all the attractive eligible men, who flocked round the pretty girls like bees around the honeypot. Her fifth year of being pursued by men like Lord Halthorpe, who were prepared to overlook her flaws and focus instead on the substantial financial sum they would acquire as part of her marriage settlement.
While being left on the shelf was becoming increasingly likely, it was also becoming increasingly attractive. If it was a choice between being left on the shelf or marrying Lord Halthorpe, then Hazel would happily climb up on to the highest shelf and remain there for the rest of her life.
She smiled to herself, imagining what her shelf would be like. It would be a delightful refuge away from everyone who had ever accused her of not being graceful enough, pretty enough or suitably demure enough to attract a man. It would contain all the latest scientific journals and books on astronomy, chemistry and physics. And she could sit up there all day long, reading to her heart’s content, without anyone passing judgement on what was or wasn’t correct behaviour for a genteel young lady.
Yes, the shelf was starting to appear rather enticing.
Lord Halthorpe sent her a gap-toothed smile. ‘Good to see you smiling, my dear. I take it you’re enjoying this dance.’
‘Mmm...’ she replied, doing her best to avoid telling a lie.
‘I think we might be in for some rain later,’ he murmured in her ear, causing her to draw back quickly to stop his walrus moustache from tickling her cheek.
The weather. That old standby for social chit-chat. Hazel suppressed a sigh and tried to ignore the smell of brandy and cigars coming off his breath. She was at least going to have to try to make polite conversation. Especially as her mother was watching from the edge of the dance floor, concern etched on her face.
‘Yes.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Earlier today I noticed nimbus clouds were moving in, suggesting we’re in for some rain within the next twenty-four hours, and the drop in the atmospheric pressure probably means there will be an increase in the strength of the wind as well. Perhaps not storm conditions, but definitely a weather event of some significance.’
Hazel knew she shouldn’t do it. Hadn’t her mother told her often enough that men do not like clever women? She had promised her that tonight she would try, really, really hard, to act suitably mindless, but oh, the tedium that came with talking about the weather, how pretty the flowers looked or how lovely the ballroom had been decorated. Just once, she wished she could have a conversation with a man that didn’t cause her to feel she was being crushed under the momentous weight of boredom.
Lord Halthorpe looked back at her with a familiar expression of suppressed irritation, one that confirmed her mother’s claim that showing any signs of intelligence was not the way to capture a man’s heart.
‘Hmm, yes,’ he mumbled, his strained smile as artificially held in place as his waxed moustache. ‘I say, that’s a lovely ribbon you’ve got in your hair, my dear. Matches your blue eyes.’
Hazel replied with an equally false smile, then joined him in wincing as her feet once again crushed his toes.
Poor Lord Halthorpe had now joined the ranks of men whose feet had been reduced to a state resembling mashed potatoes under Hazel’s unruly feet. Making mindless chit-chat wasn’t the only social skill she had failed to master. When it came to dancing, having the proverbial two left feet would be a vast improvement on the clodhopping hooves she possessed.
‘I’m so sorry, Lord Halthorpe.’
‘Not at all, my dear. My fault entirely,’ he said through gritted teeth.
Hazel had to give him some credit for his high pain threshold. Or was it simply that he knew how much she was worth? Perhaps the thought of getting his hands on the dowry that came with marrying the Earl of Springfeld’s plain, frumpy eldest daughter was enough to make him impervious to pain.
Hazel knew that her dowry was by far her most attractive feature for men like Lord Halthorpe. It certainly wasn’t her looks he was attracted to. She was painfully aware that her nose was too long, her face too round and plump, and as for her hair, birds’ nests were more orderly than the unfashionable riot of curls that passed for her crowning glory. The attributes of which she was most proud were not the ones men generally admired. She could quickly calculate mathematical problems in her head, could grasp scientific principles faster than any man she had met and was a quick learner in all academic subjects in general. But who cared about that?
Finally, the waltz came to an end. Lord Halthorpe bowed and escorted her off the crowded dance floor.
‘Allow me to get you some refreshments,’ he said with another bow, then limped off as quickly as he could into the milling crowd. More likely, he was heading for a private spot where he could investigate the state of his mangled feet.
Her mother joined her, smiling her encouragement. ‘I think you’ve made a catch there, Hazel. Lord Halthorpe seems quite taken with you. I’m confident that this Season you will most definitely get a proposal.’
Hazel had to admire her mother’s optimism. ‘We all know what he’s really taken with and it’s not me. In fact, I suspect everyone in this room knows the only reason he’s dancing with me is because he can think of no better way of settling the substantial debts on his estate other than marrying an heiress.’
Her mother frowned. ‘Don’t talk about yourself like that, Hazel. You’re a highly accomplished young lady. It’s just that you hide your charms and don’t let men see just how lovely you really are.’ She reached up and attempted to push a few escaped locks of Hazel’s frizzy brown hair back into her coiffure.
‘And Lord Dallington has been watching you all night as well.’ Her mother’s smile grew brighter. ‘I suspect he’ll be asking you for the next dance.’
Hazel’s mood sank from dispirited to despondent. Lord Halthorpe was bad enough, but Lord Dallington was impossible. The man was sixty if he was a day and his florid complexion and bulbous nose suggested he was fonder of his brandy and port than was good for him.
Had she been reduced to this? Being sold off to an ageing dullard who could bore the birds out of the trees? Her mother smiled at someone across the room. Hazel followed the direction of that smile. When she saw the recipient the temperature of hell rose by a few degrees. Lord Dallington was smiling back at them, his large, yellowed teeth visible even at this distance, and he was making his way across the crowded room towards them.
This was asking too much. Lord Dallington was even more desperate for money than Lord Halthorpe. She had been forced to dance with him at her last ball and he had made it clear that he was very interested in asking for her hand, although she knew what he was really interested in was getting his hands on her dowry.
Her parents would never expect her to marry someone against her will, but with each passing Season they were getting increasingly worried that she might never marry and would suffer the ignominy of being an ageing unmarried woman. She didn’t want to disappoint them, but Lord Dallington—that was surely asking too much. Dancing with him was bad enough, never mind marrying the man. It was time to take some evasive action.
‘I’m sorry, Mother, I need the water closet. Right now.’
Ignoring her mother’s wince of disapproval, she departed. Fast. She elbowed her way through the crowd of elegantly dressed men and women, to the accompaniment of ouches and Well, I nevers, proving that the dance floor wasn’t the only place where people weren’t safe from her crushing feet.
Taking a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder she saw that Lord Dallington was also pushing through the crowd, his eyes firmly fixed on his prize. He wasn’t going to let her, and her money, get away that easily. She quickly scanned the ballroom, looking for a safe refuge from the determined Lord.
Could she hide behind one of the large potted ferns lining the edges of the room? Would anyone notice if she secreted herself under one of the linen-covered refreshment tables? But Hazel knew herself well enough. Instead of finding refuge, she was more likely to draw attention to herself by sending the ferns crashing to the floor or plates laden with tonight’s supper flying across the room as she upturned the table.
And there was no point hiding out in the ladies’ retiring room. It wouldn’t surprise her if Lord Dallington and Lord Halthorpe staked out the room, both reluctant to let such a valuable heiress escape.
But she had to get away. She had already suffered enough tonight. Ignoring more outraged looks and disapproving comments, she continued to elbow her way through the crowd, her desperation rising with every step. She needed to find a place to hide. And she needed to find it quickly.
Lucas Darkwood needed a mate. Not just any mate, but a mate with specific qualities: an excellent pedigree, high stamina and the potential to breed profusely and regularly.
It was the search for such a mate that had brought him to Lady Clarmont’s ball. He ignored all the debutantes vying for his attention and headed straight for the card room. That was where he would find the Earl of Bromley, the man who could provide him with the mate he required.
If Lucas Darkwood had been the sort of man to admit to having faults, the only one he would have owned was a determination to succeed, no matter what. At school and university his competitive nature had seen him win every sporting event he entered and excel academically. And that determination continued when he entered the world of business and finance. He would not come second, no matter what.
And that was why he needed the Earl to provide him with a mate who would ensure he continued to be victorious.
Breeding racehorses was his latest passion. He now owned several brood mares with impeccable pedigrees, and his stallions were among the best in the country. But he wanted the Earl’s horse. She had already given birth to Ascot winners, even when bred with second-rate stallions. If Lucas mated her with his stallion, he knew they would produce superior horses that would be unbeatable. Particularly as he had secured the services of the country’s best trainers and jockeys.
Unfortunately, the Earl knew how determined he was and he was taking advantage of, for once, having Lucas just where he wanted him.
He entered the study, which had been converted to a card room for the ball. It provided a refuge for men who, like himself, did not care for idle chatter, or the dancing and matchmaking that was taking place in the ballroom.
Bromley was seated at the baccarat table and signalled for Lucas to join him. It seemed Lucas would have to endure a few rounds of cards while he spoke to the Earl, even though baccarat bored him. It relied too much on luck. Lucas took pleasure in winning only when it was due to his own skills, not the roll of a die.
‘Have you given any consideration to my latest offer?’ Lucas asked as he sat down.
The cards were dealt and Lucas placed a bet, hardly looking at his hand.
Bromley stared intently at his cards, trying to calculate whether he had a winning hand or not.
He finally placed a bet and turned to Lucas. ‘You know I don’t need the money, Darkwood. You’ll have to come up with something better than that if you’re to get my mare off me.’
Lucas swallowed down his anger. The Earl was obviously enjoying having Lucas at his mercy and taking full advantage of such a rare event. ‘And what do you suggest? Name it and it’s yours.’
The Earl looked up from his cards and gave what could only be described as a rapacious grin. ‘Anything?’
Lucas nodded.
‘That’s an interesting offer,’ Bromley said. ‘Let’s see. It would have to be something substantial to make me part with such a prize.’
Lucas could almost see the Earl’s mind working, trying to come up with something that would satisfy his need to get revenge for past defeats. Lucas’s reputation for winning at all costs angered many men and had made him a lot of enemies, including the Earl of Bromley. The son of a wealthy, self-made man, Lucas came from a family that owned more land and capital than many of the aristocrats seated around this card table. Since his father’s death he had further increased that fortune and knew that caused resentment among people who thought that the aristocracy were the only ones entitled to wealth and the power and privilege that came with it.
The Earl was not going to miss the opportunity to try to take Lucas down, to remind him that he did not possess a title and was not one of them, but whatever scheme he came up with, Lucas was confident he would come out triumphant. Didn’t he always?
While Bromley was considering how he could get the better of Lucas, the door to the card room flew open and a somewhat dishevelled young woman burst in and flattened herself against the wall behind the door. Every head in the room turned in her direction, including the Earl’s, and a few titters were heard.
The young woman registered the laughter, looked around the room and her already flushed cheeks turned a brighter shade of red. Her blue eyes behind her round tortoiseshell glasses darted around the room in what appeared to be desperation. Several strands of brown hair had escaped from her ornate hairstyle and were standing up from her head at somewhat comical angles.
She had every appearance of a woman being chased by a marauding band of ruffians. But Lady Clarmont was hardly likely to have invited a gang of thieves and vagabonds to her ball. She was reluctant enough to even invite Lucas, but had no choice. The Clarmonts saw themselves as being at the very pinnacle of society. Lady Clarmont often boasted of how she had been granted the honour of dining with Queen Victoria herself on numerous occasions. Despite that lofty position, they weren’t the only aristocratic family present in debt to Lucas. And as their lack of solvency and the extent of their debts were something they would prefer to be kept secret, they were forced to put aside their snobbery against people without a pedigree and accept Lucas into their circle.
‘I’m sorry, I was just...’ The young woman took a peek out of the door, emitted a loud gasp and flew across the room, out of the French doors and on to the terrace. But not before dislodging an aspidistra plant on the way and sending it, along with the porcelain pot, crashing to the floor. ‘I’m sorry’ was heard from the terrace.
The titters turned into loud laughter, with everyone taking delight in their ridicule of the young woman’s unusual behaviour. Everyone, that is, except Lucas.
Lord Dallington entered the room and looked around. It was now obvious why the young woman was in such a hurry to escape. Fighting off a band of ruffians would be preferable to spending time with that buffoon.
‘Lost something, have you, Dallington?’ one smirking male guest enquired, to the accompaniment of giggles from a group of ladies in the card room.
The old codger looked around a few times. ‘Has anyone seen Hazel Springfeld? She’s promised me the next dance.’
‘I believe she was seen heading down the hall a few minutes ago,’ Lucas said before anyone else could answer. ‘If you hurry, you might catch her.’
‘Thank you, Darkwood. I wouldn’t like that lovely dowry—I mean, that lovely young lady to get away. She’s quite the cash cow.’ He winked, not registering Lucas’s look of disgust, then headed off down the hall.
Once again, the room exploded with laughter and loud chatter at the young lady’s expense.
‘I think that’s one–nil to the heiress.’ Lord Bromley laughed.
‘I suppose you have to feel sorry for her, the poor thing,’ a woman seated at the table added, smiling at Lucas, her voice containing none of the sympathy her words suggested.
Lucas ignored the young woman and looked over his shoulder towards the French doors.
‘So, who is she?’
‘She’s the eldest daughter of the Earl of Springfeld,’ Bromley said, signalling for another card. ‘The younger daughter is reputed to be a beauty, but that one...’ Bromley tilted his cards in the direction of the terrace and barked out a laugh. ‘What can one say? But she’s worth a pretty penny so she’s in much more demand than her looks certainly deserve, at least from men like Dallington who need her money. I’ve also heard she’s a bit of a bluestocking.’ Bromley gave a false shudder which caused the young lady to giggle again.
‘And lord preserve any man who dances with her,’ Bromley continued. ‘He’d better come wearing workman’s boots if he wants his feet to survive the ordeal.’
Everyone at the table, except Lucas, joined in on the laughter. The casual cruelty of these people should not surprise him. He knew it grew out of boredom and a sense of privilege that had never been challenged, but it still disgusted him and was one of the reasons he chose to avoid such social occasions. But unfortunately, until he had secured his mare, he was going to have to endure their company a bit longer.
‘I’ve heard her mother has hired a string of tutors to try to turn that particularly ugly duckling into a swan, but to no effect.’ Bromley laughed again and signalled to the dealer that he wanted more cards.
‘If I was a gambling man, which I am,’ Bromley looked around the table to ensure everyone got his joke, ‘I wouldn’t put my money on any tutor being able to improve that ageing duck before it’s too late. And if she runs away from men who actually want to court her, then there’s not much chance of her bagging a husband this Season, that’s for sure.’
Lucas drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Bromley was almost as much an imbecile as Lord Dallington. ‘If she’s being chased by the likes of Dallington, then one can hardly blame the young lady for making no effort to attract his attentions,’ he said, failing to keep the disdain out of his voice. ‘If anything, it shows that she is eminently sensible for making no effort and should be admired, not disparaged.’
‘Oh, and I suppose if it was the likes of you after her, then the ugly duck would suddenly transform herself into a beauty, full of charm and grace.’ Bromley looked around the table so the other men could share his joke.
Lucas shrugged. It hardly mattered as he was unlikely to be chasing after Lady Hazel or any other young woman in search of a husband. He was after a horse, not a wife. He was just as determined to gain one as he was to avoid acquiring the other.
Bromley stopped laughing and stared at Lucas. ‘I dare you.’
‘You dare me to do what?’ This conversation was becoming increasingly irritating.
‘I dare you to put your money where your mouth is. If you can transform that...’ he pointed his cards at the terrace ‘...by the end of the Season into something that can capture a man’s attention, and not just ones like Dallington who are after her dowry, I’ll make you a gift of that brood mare you so desperately want.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Lucas shot back.
‘What, are you not up to the challenge?’ Bromley smirked at him. ‘You said for me to just name my price. Well, I’ve named it. If you think it’s too hard for you, then it looks as though you won’t be getting my horse.’
Bromley’s smirk became even more malicious as the other men broke into raucous laughter, causing Lucas to grind his teeth in anger. He hated to see a woman mocked in such a manner. No one deserved to be on the receiving end of such ridicule, nor did they deserve to be the subject of such an offensive challenge.
‘Take it or leave it, Darkwood, it’s the only offer I’m prepared to make,’ the Earl said, encouraged by the laughing men. ‘If, by the end of the Season at least, one man has expressed his regard for the girl because he’s smitten with her and cares not a fig for her money, then you can have my mare.’
Lucas glared at him, hardly able to believe that the Earl would stoop so low as to make sport of a young lady in this offensive manner.
‘What’s the problem, Darkwood? Is it that conscience of yours that’s bothering you? Well, why should it? If you succeed, the young lady will have a beau. Something she’s unlikely to get on her own. You’ll be doing her a favour. And you’ll win my mare.’
Lucas looked over towards the French doors. It was an outrageous proposal, but he had to admit the Earl had a point. Would it actually harm the young lady if he helped her find a suitable beau and saved her from men like Dallington?
‘I see I’ve piqued your interest.’ Bromley laughed. ‘But there has to be a penalty if you lose, something of equal value to my mare.’ He thought for a moment, then rubbed his hands together with barely contained excitement. ‘If she doesn’t manage to attract a genuine beau, then you’ll marry the girl yourself.’
The volume of the laughter increased and included much back slapping from the assembled men. Lucas looked around the table at their self-satisfied faces, flushed with amusement and port. Their cruelty disgusted him. But why should he be surprised? He had known many of these men since school days. They had enjoyed taunting younger and weaker students back then and they obviously hadn’t changed one iota. As a boy with no title he, too, had been the subject of cruel taunts. Many had even tried to use violence to put the upstart in his place, something they quickly came to regret.
His sympathy lay entirely with Hazel Springfeld. No one deserved to be mocked the way these men were mocking her. It would serve them right if he did transform her into a desirable young woman, one they admired rather than scorned. But were the stakes too high? If he lost, he would have to marry the girl and one thing he most definitely did not want to do was marry anyone, ever.
But then Lucas never lost to anyone, ever.
‘You’re on,’ he said, reaching over the table and shaking the hand of the surprised Bromley.
